


petals on a wet, black bough

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Before I Go to Sleep Fusion/AU, Civilian Eggsy, Dark, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9113926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: Prior to the accident, there is a rich novel of his life that he can seemingly remember with unusual and absolute precision. But then it’s as if the rest of the pages were torn out and the thread of the narrative has been abruptly cut off mid-sentence. It just stops.Any time Eggsy tries to reach further beyond it, he finds nothing at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaofAza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/gifts).



> I wanted to write a fic for each of your prompts, but already this one got unwieldy D:

In the morning, Eggsy opens his eyes to a familiar blank white ceiling and the equally familiar weight of a slumbering body beside him. Like this, warm and sleepy and sated, he feels primal, all his immediate needs met, ignorantly happy.

When he turns his head, he sees the hopeless fluffy mess of Harry’s hair poking out beneath the covers, the only part of Harry that remains visible after a night of curiously but endearingly burrowing himself, usually into the juncture of Eggsy’s shoulder and neck, like he fears the vulnerability of sleep. Before Eggsy, he’d merely disappear beneath the blankets and pillows, but now he’s happy to subconsciously use Eggsy as part of that fortification as well. It’s almost flattering.

Harry always wakes up, though, to the slightest movement or noise, or even if he feels Eggsy gazing at him for too long. He pokes his head up, sleep falling away as if it had never been, and meets Eggsy’s eyes, staring back at him like he’s searching for something.

Eggsy doesn’t know what Harry’s looking for, but his hair sticks up in all directions and the edge of a sheet has imprinted itself on his cheek and Eggsy’s heart inexplicably swells with immense love.

 

_____

 

Life is a series of moments. Quite literally, these days.

As it would happen, the reality is much less poetic.

 

_____

 

In the morning, Eggsy opens his eyes to a blank white ceiling and feels like he is getting a glimpse into his own mind.

He should know this room, every uneven surface and sun-bleached spot on the walls. The smells of morning, of drowsy bodies and freshly washed bedding, the weak sunlight seeping in through the window.

It’s the small differences that throw him. He doesn’t recognise the duvet cover he’s buried beneath. There’s supposed to be a chair in that corner upon which he always tosses his dressing gown before going to bed. He could have sworn he’d been reading a different book than what now lies on his nightstand.

Amidst these discrepancies, he turns his head and is comforted by the familiar presence of Harry asleep beside him as ever. He hasn’t managed to burrow his face so deeply into the pillows as to remain entirely hidden this time. Still, his features, lax and younger in sleep, seem older than what Eggsy remembers.

Then Harry cracks open his eyes and smiles tiredly, and it’s a sight that causes warmth to spill out within Eggsy’s chest, washing away the fading remnants of his unease.

 

_____

 

There’s a ritual, though Eggsy doesn’t know it’s a ritual. Instead of holding the same conversation over and over again, Harry has a neatly printed and laminated card for him to read that efficiently explains what’s happened to him:

_1\. You were in an accident _8_ months ago._

_2\. You suffered a traumatic brain injury that has resulted in severe amnesia._

_3\. You can’t recall anything since the accident._

_4\. Your brain is unable to store long-term memories._

_5\. Every time you fall asleep, you forget the previous day’s events._

_6\. I love you._

The first item bears the traces of previous numbers written in with an erasable marker, systematically wiped away and replaced to tally the passing of time. The last one always makes Eggsy look up to witness Harry’s weary smile.

Sometimes his first reaction is to burst into tears. Sometimes it’s to ask what happened to JB (he lives with Eggsy’s mum now, which wouldn’t be so bad except Eggsy’s mum now lives in New Zealand). Sometimes he asks why Harry stays.

If it breaks Eggsy’s heart every time he learns what’s become of his life, he can’t imagine what it does to Harry, always having to relive the moment when the illusion shatters, to be reminded of the day their lives came to a standstill, over and over, while Eggsy has the fortune of blissful ignorance as his clock resets.

He’s luckier than others with this sort of permanent injury. He still remembers Harry. He still remembers how much he loves him.

Despite his fears, Harry assures him it’s enough.

 

_____

 

After they finish, Harry is always so diligent and gentle in cleaning Eggsy up when he’s too strung out to do much more than lift a limb when directed to do so.

“Well, fuck me.” Eggsy sighs and moulds his sated body against Harry’s, finding a place to lay his head on Harry’s chest and sliding his leg across Harry’s hips, practically throwing himself across Harry’s body.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Harry arching a brow. “Isn’t that what I already did?”

“And how.” Eggsy hums. Once the endorphins start to recede, however, a colder reality starts to sink in. “My fucking brain. I hate that I won’t remember how brilliant this is, right now at this very moment.”

Love is supposed to grow deeper with time. That won’t ever happen with them.

Harry wraps his long arms around him, tipping his face up to kiss his temple. “Eggsy, each and every moment with you is a gift. Even if we’ll never see tomorrow together like this again, we’ll still see it in an altogether new way. I feel like I learn something new about you every day.”

He lifts his head and rests his chin just to the left of Harry’s sternum so he can better meet his gaze. “Suppose you know me better than I know myself these days.”

Harry raises a hand to cup his cheek and jaw, stroke his fingers through Eggsy’s hair, petting him like he’s some well-adored cat, before drawing away and tipping his wrist to glance at his watch.

“Time for bed?” Eggsy asks, half with dread. “Can’t we stay up just a little longer, Harry? Just a little longer.”

But Harry just shakes his head. “When you close your eyes, Eggsy, I’ll always be there, just as I will when you open them again in the morning. I promise.”

Eggsy never remembers closing his eyes.

 

_____

 

Eggsy opens his eyes to the white ceiling, feeling strange. Like his body isn’t his own. Like someone’s hijacked it and taken it out for a spin without him being aware. It’s satisfactorily sore and exhausted in the way it gets when he’s had a particularly vigourous shag, but last night is a complete blank.

Too much scotch? He doesn’t feel hungover. What were they celebrating again?

He turns and is greeted to the pleasant sight of Harry curled up against him, limbs strung over him in octopus-like fashion. It’s closer than he usually is in the mornings, which he only ever does after aforementioned excellent shagging.

“If you’re feeling half as fucked out as I am,” he says when Harry starts to open his eyes, “You’ll call in today have a lie in with me.” He doesn’t expect the startled confusion and—odd—fear that flashes across Harry’s gaze. “That’s alright, isn’t it? The world can survive one day without its number one tailor.”

Whatever alarm there had been settles back down into a resigned distance, an arc that Eggsy doesn’t understand. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

Harry doesn’t say a word, just reaches across him to retrieve a laminated card on the night stand that he hadn’t noticed before, handing it to Eggsy before he gets up to get ready for the day.

 

_____

 

It hasn't always been like this, Eggsy knows.

Prior to the accident, there is a rich novel of his life that he can seemingly remember with unusual and absolute precision: learning about his father’s death in the marines just a few days before Christmas and the soft glow of the fairy lights shining in his mum’s tear-filled eyes, making them look glassy and shallow.

The first time Dean ever struck him, a fist to his eye socket that had swelled the lid shut and left an ugly dark ring around it for weeks, and being more shocked by the novelty of cruelty than the pain.

Meeting Harry, the stupidly posh Savile Row tailor, who had rejected his proposition for a twenty quid blowjob but offered to take Eggsy out for dinner and drinks in exchange for good company instead.

Many, many memories of Harry after that: more dinners. Going to the cinema on Classic Hollywood night to watch _Sabrina_. Seeing that fucking ridiculous _Cats_ musical and catching Harry’s misty eyes at the end. The trip to Brighton and sleeping too long beneath a rare sun. Their first shag, Harry pressing him against the sand encrusted sheets, Eggsy’s sunburned skin irritated by the weight of Harry’s body and the scratch of his hair, but uncaring because Harry’s tongue was in his mouth, hot and wet, and Harry’s cock was in his arse, hard and fast and deep. Being connected to Harry, feeling like he would never be lonely again.

Moving into Harry’s strange little townhouse with only two boxes because his possessions were meagre.

Harry buying him the bulldog puppy for Christmas as an apology for all his long and frequent business trips and not laughing at Eggsy when he learned JB wasn’t actually a bulldog after all.

Harry being resigned to the fact that Eggsy always liked to stay up late rather than get up early.

Harry making him breakfast in bed on weekends, boiling the eggs for six minutes exactly because that’s how Eggsy likes them.

Harry knowing just how he likes his tea, no sugar, just a splash of milk.

Harry indulging in how much Eggsy loves to be touched in gentleness at any time, just because. A hand through his hair while passing by, massaging the back of his neck whilst immersed in a novel, a cheeky grope to his arse, a possessive hand to his hip, an all-encompassing and comforting embrace.

But then…

...It’s as if the rest of the pages were torn out and the thread of the narrative has been abruptly cut off mid-sentence. It just stops.

Any time Eggsy tries to reach further beyond it, he finds nothing at all.

 

_____

 

Eggsy no longer works. He’s been told he used to work at the local Waitrose as an overnight stocker. Not exactly his dream job. For once, he isn’t all too sorry to have lost those memories.

Still, even with just one day to live at a time, the hours feel long and lonely, and he suspects he often feels this way, staring at the walls smothered by Harry’s elegant eccentricity. Harry has to work, though he tells Eggsy he no longer goes on overseas trips that last longer than a day on account of Eggsy’s special needs. He tells Eggsy his return times are unpredictable, but he’ll always make sure Eggsy will get to see him before he goes to sleep.

So Eggsy tries to be useful and keep himself busy by maintaining the house, but everything is already kept so clean, pre-empted by a previous version of himself, no doubt. He considers taking up cooking after finding several recipes printed out from the internet he doesn’t remember looking up, but the refrigerator is packed with leftovers.

On a whim, he thinks he ought to indulge in old hobbies, only to realise he never had any. He’s never had the resources or support to cultivate them growing up aside from petty theft and reckless driving. He doesn’t think Harry would approve of those particular ones.

Trying to learn new ones would be a wasted effort, obviously.

 

_____

 

Eggsy slowly wakes up to a blank, white ceiling, the soft breaths of Harry tickling his neck, the length of him a warm wall of heat against his side that blurs the physical boundaries of their bodies until he can’t tell where he ends and Harry begins.

He frowns, feeling discontent, though he can’t pinpoint the reason as to why.

 

_____

 

There’s so little in the house to clean, and the restless feeling he woke up with that morning hasn’t receded all that much, so he decides to do a bit of reorganising instead, moving the chairs in the lounge to create better flow, switching up the drawers in the kitchen for maximum usefulness. Nearly an hour in, he realises he’s been trying to rearrange all the furniture in Harry’s house back to how he remembers it.

In their bedroom, Eggsy is confronted with the sheer magnitude of Harry’s clothes. It’s never occurred to him what a clotheshorse Harry actually is, but the wardrobe is entirely stocked with Harry’s bespoke suits. At the bottom is a wooden shoe rack that bears almost as many shiny black oxfords, identical. The little drawers carry several rolled silk ties, handkerchiefs, and cufflinks. Everything a gentleman could want.

At the very back, nearly hidden behind all of Harry’s clothes, is another suit, and it is most definitely not Harry’s even though it’s a near replica of Harry’s favourite ensemble: dark blue pinstripes, double breasted, slim fit.

Eggsy tries it on and finds that it almost fits him perfectly. It would be the finest thing he owns, he supposes, though he can’t think of many occasions that would require a grocery worker to wear something so nice.

 _A gentleman always owns at least one good suit_ , he thinks, studying himself in the mirror, his lips tightened in dissatisfaction.

He looks incomplete.

_Looking good, Eggsy._

_Feeling good, Merlin._

The wisp of recollected words with Harry’s best friend hovers on the edges of his mind, though he can’t recall much more than that, even when he struggles.

Still. _Still_. His heart pounds and pounds.

It’s the most he’s ever recalled from those missing eight months of his life.

 

_____

 

“I remembered something,” he tells Harry over dinner, barely able to contain his excitement. It’s not much, he knows, but it feels like hope, like this is the first leaking drop that preludes the flood. “From before.”

“What was it?” Harry calmly studies him, and Eggsy can’t determine the expression on his face. Had he always been this bad at reading Harry?

“A conversation with Merlin. Admittedly not more than a line or two, but...you made me a suit, didn’t you? I must have been trying it on for the first time, and Merlin was there.” Eggsy tries to remain calm, but the smile grows across his lips anyway. “I found it again today in the wardrobe. It’s really nice, Harry. Ought to take me out sometime, yeah?”

“I will,” Harry says, and that’s that.

Whatever reaction Eggsy had expected of Harry, curiosity, or wonder, or at least an equal share of the excitement, he doesn’t get it. Worse still, the absence of it throws an icy douse of water on what remains of his.

 

_____

 

 _Harry really has a ridiculous number of suits_ , Eggsy thinks as he sorts through the wardrobe, in every shade of black, charcoal, grey, and dark blue, a veritable small fortune right there.

He doesn’t know what prompted him to look through it, but he keeps pushing through suit after suit, searching for what, he couldn’t say, but at this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if ended up in fucking Narnia.

In the end, all he manages to unearth is an old, dingy snapback he used to wear, pre-Harry, often as a way to shadow his features on the streets any time he saw a police car drive by. All its presence does is serve to remind him that without Harry, he has nothing. Nothing at all.

 

_____

 

Eggsy opens his eyes to a cool-hued morning bathing the white ceiling. He hears the dull roar of a storm battering against the windows and already feels that much more tired. 

He rolls over and curls up into Harry’s body. There’s a healing over cut in his hairline and a fading bruise hidden in the stubble of his jaw. Eggsy stretches out a hand only to find his wrist snatched up by Harry’s fingers, thumb pressed against his rabbiting pulse point.

Harry looks back at him, eyes as sharp and glinting as a hawk’s.

 

_____

 

When Eggsy first wakes up in hospital, it’s to a blank white ceiling, cracked and peeling in some places, water stained in others. His skull feels like it’s been scoured clean, barely connected to the rest of his body. He turns his head and there is surprisingly no pain, but there is Harry sleeping in the chair at his side, limbs spilling out of it awkwardly rather than with his usual grace, neck bent at a horrible angle.

Harry looks exhausted, like he hasn’t slept for several days. As if feeling Eggsy’s gaze upon him, he stirs and slowly open his eyes. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Eggsy awake. He looks wary.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Fine,” Eggsy says, because aside from the strange buoyancy in his head, he is. “Maybe a little dizzy. What happened?”

“You were in an accident,” Harry tells him calmly. “You’ve been in hospital for a month now and conscious for at least a week.”

“A week?” Eggsy frowns. The rest is too much to process. “I don’t remember.”

“No,” Harry tells him sadly. “You wouldn’t.”

 

_____

 

He stares at the printed lasagna recipe in his hands being slowly creased and smudged beneath his fingers.

He’s made this before.

He remembers overboiling the wide flat noodles until they became limp and mushy. He remembers laying them across the bottom of the casserole dish, remembers having to turn down the heat because the tomato sauce had started to splatter. 

He remembers it.

Does he?

Eggsy swallows. The paper in his hand trembles.

He moves to the freezer and opens it. There are so many containers of leftovers, neatly labelled with their dates. Curry and chicken and spaghetti and steak and shepherd’s pie and... _there_. The lasagna, made exactly one week ago to the day.

Holy fuck, he _remembers_ it.

 

_____

 

They eat the reheated lasagna for dinner. He wants to tell Harry, it’s on the tip of his tongue, he can barely sit still.

He opens his mouth to announce the good news.

And then closes it.

Harry finally notices his hesitation. “Is something the matter?”

Eggsy’s gaze falls to Harry’s mouth. “You’ve split your lip. What happened?”

Harry waves away his concern with a fork. “Clumsy new apprentice who left a drawer open. It’s fine.”

It tastes like a lie, bitter and hollow. Eggsy doesn’t know why it does. Harry’s expression is neutral, unbothered, and suddenly Eggsy's angry.

“And the cut on your temple? The bruise on your jaw?” He’s standing up now. Shouting.

Harry just looks at him in bewilderment. “What are you talking about?”

“Come here and let me see! I want to see them!”

“What?”

“Come here, I said!”

Slowly, Harry pushes away from the table and rounds it in a manner that suggests he’s only humouring him. Eggsy wastes no time in gripping Harry’s face between his hands, roughly pulling him down closer for inspection.

No cut. No bruise. Nothing that hasn’t already been explained.

“I’m sorry,” Eggsy whispers, feeling sick. “I don’t know what’s got into me.”

“It’s alright,” Harry says, hands reaching up to cover Eggsy’s, gently intertwining their fingers. “Are you tired? Perhaps we should go to bed.”

“Okay.” It’s still early, but even as Harry mentions it, Eggsy’s body feels heavy, his mind stretched and warped out of shape. Bed. For once he’s eager to close his eyes and forget all about this momentary insanity. 

 

_____

 

Eggsy opens his eyes, already frowning, feeling out of sorts. He’s slept on his side, unusual for him, and his shoulder twinges when he rolls onto his back. 

Beside him, Harry stirs and raises his head. “Good morning.” There’s a scabbed over cut on his lip, a black slash across the lighter pink flesh.

Eggsy lifts a hand to caress Harry’s jaw, running his thumb along the prickly greying bristles. “Morning.”

 _You should have a bruise there_ , he thinks.

 

_____

 

Merlin stops by today. It’s unexpected, but then again, maybe he stops by everyday. How would Eggsy know?

“How are you faring?” Merlin asks after Eggsy hands him his tea.

Eggsy shrugs and gives him a look. “Fine? I mean...I guess today I am.” He sits down in the arm chair closest to Merlin and frowns. This setup isn’t how he remembers it to be. His chair should be by the window. The couch should be on the opposite wall.

“Perhaps it’s a silly question to ask in retrospect.” Merlin has a way of looking at him that makes Eggsy feel transparent. It puts him on edge, makes him guard his thoughts and measure his breaths. “It’s only that Harry said you had a bad night. He wanted to make sure there were no lingering ill effects today.”

Eggsy blinks, taken aback by that revelation. Harry hadn’t said anything to him about it. “What happened?”

“He didn’t elaborate, but I imagine the ongoing effects of your injury can be stressful. It wouldn’t be the first bad night you’ve had.”

 _Poor Harry_ , Eggsy can’t help but think. Having to put up with Eggsy, deal with his mood swings, never knowing who he’s going to wake up with or come home to every day. No wonder he’s aged so much even in less than a year.

“I guess that’s the terrible beauty of it,” Eggsy says, giving Merlin an empty smile. “I’m not the one who has to live with myself.”

 

_____

 

Eggsy wakes up and Harry isn’t in bed next to him. Instead, he’s sitting on the edge of it, already dressed for the day, but not in a suit. Casual clothes, jeans, a button down cardigan, unstyled hair. The disparity throws Eggsy off, as do the deeper lines on his face, darker shadows beneath his eyes, and a healing cut on his lip. 

“I don’t feel like working today, so I thought we could go to the beach,” Harry says.

“I...what?”

“Haven’t you ever woken up and thought to yourself, _fuck it_?” There’s a sort of desperation in Harry’s eyes. _Don’t question it, Eggsy_. “That’s what today is. Are you with me?”

 _Why are you so tired?_ Eggsy wants to ask, but doesn’t. “Fuck it. Yeah, alright.”

 

_____

 

The sky is overcast, murky, creating a hazy blur between sky and sea. It’s impossible to tell the time of day, he can’t even recall what day it is, but it’s like time has little meaning anymore. The wind has a bite to it, misting sea spray into every gust that sneaks past his jumper, but still, Eggsy feels happy.

He runs across the wet sand and turns to look at the trail of deep imprints his feet have left behind. He runs to Harry, who catches him, and they both go tumbling down into the sand. It’s a mess, cold and growing wetter by the second, but Eggsy doesn’t care, finding Harry’s lips, opening his, licking the roof of his mouth.

“Why?” Eggsy asks once they’ve caught their breath. “Why here? Why now? I mean, it’s fucking cold, Harry.”

But he feels inexplicably happy anyhow. 

“Eggsy, do you remember when we last came down here?”

“Of course I do. Took the last of my innocence, I do recall,” Eggsy cheekily says, heat deepening his voice. It’s a good memory. Never fails to warm him head to toe, some places more than others.

“There wasn’t much left by then.” Harry smiles, before it fades just as quickly. “I just miss this and us like this. We’re different outside of London.”

“Is this you wanting a change of scenery?” Eggsy asks. He can understand it, though. London hasn’t always been a happy place for him. “Maybe me Mum and Daisy would like to get out of London too.”

Something flickers across Harry’s expression, too quick for Eggsy to catch, like a quick ripple across a still pond. “Yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? A little cottage by the sea. I can be a fisherman. You can sew the nets.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with the sewing skills,” Eggsy points out, climbing into Harry’s lap and smirking down at him. “I’m the fisherman, _you’re_ the fishwife.”

“I stand corrected.” Harry smiles again, the big one, goofy and with teeth, so wide that the skin pulls at the scab on his lower lip. “Alright, yes. Agreed.”

They’re not really going to do it, but the fantasy is a nice one to maintain for a little while longer. Eggsy’s already agreed to follow Harry down this mad rabbit hole of a day without question.

Harry’s hair is a hopeless mess of tangled curls from the ocean air. The cold has given his cheeks a healthy flush. He looks younger than he did before. It’s like the years have fallen away here. Why can’t they stay?

So Eggsy leans down to kiss Harry like it’s a covenant, tasting brine on his tongue.

 

_____

 

Eggsy makes a note to ask Harry if he actually does wear every bloody suit he’s got in the wardrobe. There are so many. One man can’t possibly need this many.

He’d been thinking about reorganising the wardrobe. Something about it bothers him. Only, Eggsy’s come to find that it’s stocked entirely with Harry’s things, whilst Eggsy’s more casual wear can be folded (or balled up and stuffed) into the drawers of the dresser. Really, he ought to have left it alone after that because Harry’s always had his own neurotic system of organisation, but Eggsy finds himself pushing past the suits and the oxfords and ties and all the other accessories anyway, just cataloging what's there.

It’s only once he’s counted through ten different ties that the world starts to take on a surreal quality, like he’s stepped outside his body and is only watching himself go through the autonomous motions. He freezes.

 _I’ve done this before_ , he thinks.

 

_____

 

Harry gets home and he’s in such a bad mood, not even returning Eggsy’s greeting, storming past him to the bar to pour himself a full glass of scotch and immediately draining half of it.

“Harry. What the fuck happened?”

Harry sets the glass down on the table hard enough to make Eggsy wince. “I’m going to bed.”

Eggsy glances at the clock over the mantel. “It’s only half seven.”

Harry just gives him a dark, shimmering look that forbids any further lines of questioning. “I forgot to lock the front door. Could you go and do it for me, please?”

Instead of telling Harry that he can do it his own fucking self, Eggsy grits his teeth and chooses the high road. No use rowing over something that clearly Harry isn’t going to talk about. Not like it’ll matter after tonight either.

So Eggsy turns and—

 

_____

 

Eggsy wakes up. The ceiling is white. Harry is already awake, watching him. His eyes are bloodshot. His skin is pale. 

“You okay?” Eggsy asks, the weight of his concern broken up by a yawn. 

Harry doesn't say anything, just leans forward and kisses him like he’s starving, taking Eggsy off guard. He tastes like stale scotch. 

 

_____

 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s gone out for a jog. Tried calling his mum before it occurred to him she’s got a new number and he doesn’t know what it is, nor does he know the time difference between New Zealand and England. The freezer is brimming with leftovers from all the cooking he must have done before. Half of it’s fucking lasagna. There isn’t even dust on the tops of the picture frames.

He spends the afternoon moving furniture around because the setup bothers him, and it’s only when he’s finished that he realises he’s moved everything to how it’d been before, since when he last remembered it before the accident. It’s not enough, though.

The wardrobe in their bedroom has a fucking padlock on it. Eggsy hadn’t even noticed until now. He keeps all his clothes in the dresser.

“Why the fuck did you lock the wardrobe?” he asks Harry at dinner. It’s been bugging him all afternoon.

“I keep valuables and important documents in there,” Harry says. “The lock on the safe broke two days ago, so I’ve been improvising until I can get a replacement.”

It’s a reasonable answer, but for some reason, Eggsy can’t help but think he’s lying.

 

_____

 

There’s a padlock on the wardrobe. It just seems wrong. It invites secrecy by its very presence. Eggsy shouldn’t care. He keeps all his clothes in the dresser, so really, the wardrobe falls within Harry’s domain, but...why?

The question nags at him all day like a loose tooth.

Finally, he breaks down and fetches the toolbox from the cupboard, unscrewing the hinges and removing the wardrobe’s doors. He wouldn’t be able to explain the madness that prompted this, but he plans on putting everything back in its rightful place, no one the wiser, once he gets to the bottom of it all.

But as for what that bottom is supposed to be, Eggsy doesn’t know. Nothing looks amiss. There are Harry’s numerous suits and numerous ties and numerous cufflinks, handkerchiefs, and shoes. That’s it.

Eggsy picks up one of the shiny pairs of oxfords from the shoe rack.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to pull his hands wide and them clap them together like he’s cleaning chalkboard erasers, but the answer emerges lethally sharp from the toe of the right shoe.

 

_____

 

“You’re going to explain who the fuck you are right now.”

A pair of oxfords sits on the coffee table when Harry comes home. It would have been a perfectly innocuous, if somewhat unusual, sight but for the gleaming blade jutting out of the right sole. Had his reflexes been any slower, Eggsy would have found himself a few fingers short when he had accidentally knocked them against the wall.

Harry glances at the incriminating evidence, then meets Eggsy’s accusing gaze. For once, his skills at articulation fail him, so Eggsy continues, “You some kinda secret assassin or something? I mean...there’s the scars and you can’t be this fucking clumsy to come home with so many injuries all the time. And, you know, let’s not overlook the fact there’s a fucking switchblade hidden in your shoe!”

“A spy, actually,” Harry finally says once he’s shaken himself from his stupour. “I’m glad you didn’t touch the blade. It’s laced with a powerful neurotoxin.”

And then Harry explains everything. The tailor cover. The missions. The sick spy gadgets.

“I’d been keeping them in a false lining in my wardrobe, though I suppose there was nothing I could do with so many shoes,” Harry admits sheepishly.

He even shows Eggsy his umbrella and the dials on his watch.

“Holy fucking shit, Harry,” Eggsy says after seeing a personal demonstration of the watch that shoots actual amnesia-inducing darts. “This is like some real James Bond shit right here.” 

Harry gives him a startled look that gradually transforms into wonder. “You’re not...frightened by any of this.”

“Nah. I’m just glad to finally get an explanation for all the little things that didn’t add up,” Eggsy says. “Still kinda pissed you kept it from me, though, but you can make it up to me.”

“How so?”

Eggsy grins. “Teach me some cool moves? Wouldn’t mind learning a few skills from my badass boyfriend.”

 

_____

 

Ten months later, Eggsy looks up from the pair of oxfords he’s still holding in his hand to meet Harry’s eyes. “That was fast.” His voice sounds dull and flat to his own ears. “You watching me now?”

 _Cameras_ , he thinks. Probably all over the house. A spy would do that.

For his part, Harry straightens from where he had been gripping the bedroom door frame that he had used to catch himself in his haste to get to Eggsy. “I had to. You were demonstrating unusual behavioural patterns.”

“Unusual?”

Harry hesitates. “There were signs that...that your mind was beginning to resist the drug’s effects due to an increase in tolerance.”

The implications leave Eggsy breathless. “What have you done to me?”

 

_____

 

It’s pissing rain and the wind whips the leaves off the threadbare trees. It’s the kind that drenches everyone in seconds regardless of the robustness of one’s umbrella. Within their warm little townhouse, though, Eggsy is warm and dry, but he doesn’t feel safe. There’s a hard knot in his stomach. He’s holding JB tightly, too tightly. The dog yelps and struggles out of his arms, glaring at Eggsy before quickly scampering away. Eggsy’s too wound up to apologise and go after him.

“What do you mean?” he manages to say after too many long moments of silence.

Harry just stares at him. Devastation makes his eyes darker and larger and depthless. “I’m sorry, Eggsy. I’m so sorry. They’ve given me no choice. Kingsman has always operated with utmost secrecy, which means no one outside of Kingsman can know who we are.”

“Then why did you ever tell me?” Eggsy shouts at him. “Why didn’t you lie before? Or...or...darted me then, erase a couple hours and we could go on our merry way?” Now it wouldn’t be erasing just a few mere hours. Now it would be erasing nearly the whole of their lives together.

All those months of quietly unfolding secrets, of coming to know each other in ways no one else could. Gone.

“I didn’t want to lie to you anymore. I…” Harry sinks down upon the couch, looking lost, like his legs no longer have the strength to hold him up and he’s run through all his last options. “It’s a lonely life we lead. Sometimes it’s full of horrors we can never speak of to anyone. I thought...I thought that maybe. Maybe I could just have this with you. That if I were clever enough, no one would find out. That we could be partners in all things.”

And for awhile, it had been so good. A secret only they knew and enjoyed. Eggsy _liked_ that Harry trusted him. That he could be the shelter from the storm of his other life at Kingsman.

“We still can,” Eggsy implores, taking a few steps closer like he were approaching a wild animal. “Harry, we still can. You know I won’t ever tell anyone anything. You don’t have to do this. We could...I dunno, get away from here. Leave. Lead a quiet life somewhere far away like we talked about. Remember? You always wanted to live by the sea.”

Harry whispers so quietly, Eggsy can barely hear it. “A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.”

When he looks up at Eggsy, it’s with clear focus, empty of emotion. Eggsy imagines it’s the last thing Harry’s victims ever see.

“No, Harry. No, please, wait—!”

He moves too fast. Eggsy’s always known Harry had to be good at this, to go out on so many missions and come back as frequently uninjured as he had, but he’s never witnessed it firsthand until now, Harry grabbing him by his neck, practically throwing him onto the couch like he is nothing more than a ragged pillow.

Eggsy shouts and struggles, balls his hands into fists to try and punch Harry away or kick out at him, but Harry efficiently weaves and bears his body down upon Eggsy in a manner that wholly incapacitates him against the cushions, one palm cupping the underside of Eggsy’s jaw, forcing his face up to the blank white ceiling and exposing the rapid beat of his pulse at his neck.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the watch on Harry’s wrist as he lowers his hand, cupping Eggsy’s neck in a lover’s parody.

Whatever sense of dignity he’s struggled to maintain flies out the window in the face of his terror. Eggsy sobs. “Please don’t do this! Please. Please!”

Harry’s features crumple. “I wish there was another way. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Eggsy.”

He feels the sting of the needle penetrating his skin and the darkness descending.

“Please forgive me.” It’s the last thing Eggsy hears, but he won’t remember it.

 

_____

 

“That should have been it,” Harry tells him now. “One concentrated dose, a credible explanation for the missing time, and you get on with your life, none the wiser. It’s what we do to recruits who fail to earn a position at the table.”

Eggsy shakes his head, trying to get it around all that Harry’s told him, but it’s too large, slippery, in its vastness. “But it wasn’t just that one time. You did this to me, over and over.”

It isn’t his brain that is the problem. There was no accident. There is just Harry making him forget each night, keeping him pinned to one moment in time forever.

“I was too selfish to give you up,” Harry says, arms folded over his middle like he’s been dealt a crippling blow, like he hasn’t been the perpetrator of the sucker punch himself. “The drug isn’t foolproof. It depends on not being surrounded by constant reminders of all the things you’re supposed to forget. It had to be reinforced every day. Only...it wasn’t ever meant for long-term use, I suppose. Not this long, at any rate.”

“What did you do to my mum? My sister and JB?” If Harry’s hurt them in any way….

“I wasn’t lying before about that. They do live in New Zealand. They think you’re...gone. They’ve learned to move on without you.”

“You bastard.” It’s the first tendril of true anger he feels.

Harry accepts it. “I couldn’t afford to have anyone find out or suspect. They’re provided for. They have a very good life. I know it’s not much, but it’s the least I could do to make up for all I’ve taken from you.”

They both know Harry’s taken everything.

Numb, Eggsy asks, “So what happens to me now?”

Because he knows.

His story doesn’t get a happy ending.

Harry grimly meets his eyes. “Merlin’s been working on a stronger formula. A complete erasure of all memories this time. It’s the only way we can be certain this won’t happen again.”

Eggsy’s gaze falls to Harry’s watch. He swallows and blinks away the sudden sting in his eyes. “Will you kiss me then? Before I forget?”

He watches Harry rise from the couch and cross the room to him, slowly, like in a dream. When Harry raises a hand to cup his face, Eggsy leans into it, trying to soak in that warmth, the callused surfaces of his palm. He lifts his own hand to cover the back of Harry’s, unfurling his fingers over Harry’s long, elegant ones, knuckle to knuckle, marvelling at how this side of Harry’s hand is as smooth and soft as broken in leather. He wants to remember what it’s like to be touched in tenderness, in all-consuming love.

His memories are only just starting to rise to the surface. So many still remain hidden in the deep. But there are still some things he knows.

He knows sleight of hand, one of his few skills from before he ever met Harry and therefore safe from Harry’s machinations.

And now he remembers when Harry first showed him Kingsman’s watch. Two clockwise turns of the dial to noc the right darts into place. Press it in to activate.

Harry sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening behind his glasses. Shock. Betrayal.

“Eggsy,” he breathes before he collapses at Eggsy’s feet.

 

_____

 

Eggsy slowly opens his eyes to a blank white ceiling. It's still mostly dark out with only the faintest brushes of dawn sweeping the sky.

Unbidden, he smiles and turns his head to the sleeping mass of warmth beside him. Gets to look his fill. Harry doesn’t get up until the sun is well up in the sky these days, and not even a hurricane could rouse him until then. 

Seaside living isn’t quite so idyllic as romantic notions would have one believe. It’s more overcast than not, windier than warm, tempestuous than serene.

Still, Eggsy doesn’t want to be anywhere else. He loves the continuous roar of the restless ocean. He loves the shrill cries of the sea birds cycling through the air, eyeing him below with beady suspicion. He loves how first thing in the morning after the tide’s gone out, the wet sand is as smooth and glossy as freshly fallen snow.

It feels like a fresh start.

Harry doesn’t know it, but he’s always loved the sea too. 

“You always said you’d retire here,” Eggsy says, pink cheeked from the wind and squinting beneath the bright blaze of winter sun. 

Harry’s gaze travels from the flat horizon to the salt encrusted rocks the ocean batters. “I think I can see why. It's like one’s own demons get swallowed up in the crashing of waves.”

The wind plays havoc with Harry’s curls, left unstyled and a little too long now, but he doesn't seem to mind. He rarely ever gets self-conscious about his appearance, though Eggsy always thinks he looks effortlessly gorgeous anyway.

He almost cuts a Byronic profile, chin defiantly lifted, face more youthful, unbothered and unburdened by stress: Eggsy’s gift to him.

“What demons aside from the monstrosity of your hair?”

They're having a good day today (sometimes there are bad ones, the ones where the plates and glasses and picture frames get broken), so Harry laughs and fails to successfully run his fingers through his hair before giving up and dragging Eggsy in for a kiss that thaws the chill in the air.

“I don't know,” he says when he pulls away only slightly, still within Eggsy’s orbit, foreheads and noses pressed warmly together. “Nothing, I suppose. Nothing at all.”


End file.
